


ficlets 04

by choir



Series: drabbles/mini fics [4]
Category: Free!, Ookiku Furikabutte | Big Windup!
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 03:39:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choir/pseuds/choir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rin is really terrible at admitting things. / Hanai gives in. / Junta speaks to Kazuki before he leaves for college. / Haru can't breathe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ficlets 04

**Rin/Makoto. Scars.**

 

Rin has scars that Makoto does not know.

_The lane lines,_ he says. _Got a bunch of scars from them, on my hands and ankles._

Makoto’s hands are much softer. Not dainty, no, but more fragile than Rin remembers, though Makoto has never held the sort of inward strength and drive that Haru radiates. It seems unfair, the way the world bends and conforms them both, Makoto’s fear of water and love for Haru so contradicting that makes Rin’s hands clench into fists when he sees them together.

He isn’t sure if jealousy is the reason his throat tightens when Makoto asks to speak to him a few days before the meet, but he knows — he knows it will always be about Haru.

“He doesn’t say it, but he’s glad you’re back,” says Makoto, tilting his head at Rin and giving him a smile, so calm that Rin’s heart aches.

_Talk about yourself, dumbass, it’s always Haru, Haru, Haru, but what about you —_

Rin lets out the breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. “We’ll see each other at the relay. Why are you here?”

Much to Rin’s surprise, Makoto laughs, quietly and behind the hand he brings up to his mouth. “I’m not sure. I think I’m glad you’re back, too.”

Rin looks away, and his pulse seems to beat louder beneath his skin, limbs suddenly heavy. When he opens his mouth, his throat, dry and constricted, only lets out a huff of acknowledgment, and Makoto’s smile widens.

His skin — it feels as though it is burning, because every piece of Makoto matches up to what he remembers him to be. Gentle, too kind for his own good, infuriatingly level-headed in ways Rin never was.

“But we’ll see you at the relay, like before.” Makoto continues, stepping forward and placing a hand on Rin’s shoulder. He suppresses the urge to flinch away.

“Yeah,” Rin says, eyes flickering away from Makoto’s face and towards the ground. He doesn’t want to hear this anymore; it almost hurts, his hands becoming clammy and shaky.

And in the end, he isn’t sure what’s worse: that his hopes are so great they bleed into his dreams and he wakes up with Makoto’s eyes burned into the back of his head, or the pained look he gives Rin on the day of the meet when Haru walks away from the block, like it wasn’t worth it, was never worth it.

 

 

 

 

 

**Hanai/Tajima. Unsure.**

 

What settles at the bottom of your stomach is not regret.

He is staring at you, eyes as hollow as his expression, and you can only watch as the sun catches the outline of his cheekbones. His mouth opens, whispering words between pauses of the frantic beat of your heart, and his teeth; they must be lined with blood, or the words spilling from his lips would not carry such venom.

You can’t breathe, and your veins begin pulsing with an unknown terror, settling ice and fire just below the surface of your skin. The hunch of your shoulders gives you away, you know; there is nothing he does not miss. Not the quick exhales, not the way you clutch to your wrist to snub out the burn stretching from your palm. He is far too observant.

It is not kindness, the way his fingers curl around your jaw, sharp and rough and _wrong wrong wrong_ — nails cut short, yet sharp when they tuck under your chin, pulling it downwards. He must be yelling now, mouth moving with strong words as though to break and cut through skin.

Were you more prone to protect yourself beneath iron, hardened like rock and built to last and last and last, you wouldn’t notice the tears in the corner of his eyes that he quickly wipes away with the back of his palm, nor the surge of affection beneath your chest.

You wouldn’t wrap your arms around him. Wouldn’t press your lips to the top of his hand, shaking when he clutches at your sides.

(Embarrassment does not always fade; even now, you can feel heat at the base of your throat, stuttering your words, making them catch on the tip of your tongue. It reminds you of what lasts, and what doesn’t.)

 

 

 

 

 

**Kazuki/Junta. Closure.**

 

Junta is bent over on his knees, breathing so heavily that Kazuki wonders how much he ran, if he would again run across the distance about to separate them. The things he wants to say will become easier, he rationalizes. They’ll fade, when he doesn’t have to hear the crack of the baseball bat against a fast pitch, feel the wild excitement that bubbles up in his stomach.

“Kazu-san,” Junta breathes, standing up straighter.

The first thing Kazuki sees makes his heart slow: the chapped lips, the angry flush spreading across Junta’s cheeks down to his throat, the watery eyes filled with everything Kazuki will not be able to say here. He’s a coward, he knows. Junta is more courageous than he will ever be.

“You’re … leaving now,” Junta reiterates, and Kazuki smiles and raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah.” He places a hand on Junta’s shoulder. “But I’ll drop by. I’m not far away.”

Junta’s eyes drop to the floor. “No, you won’t. You don’t want to look at the field or that school anymore, because of me —”

Red rushes up into Kazuki’s face, rage replacing the calm expression there. _The past is something that must never weigh you down_ were the last words his father said before Kazuki left his house.

He thinks of Junta, tall and laughing and swaying on the mound, pointing at Riou while clutching his stomach. Turning around to Kazuki at his call, eyes suddenly serious and focused, sweat dripping from his brow. The grin when he succeeds, leaning in too close when they win a game, those same hard eyes soft and strange —

If the past is an event that must not affect him, should he forget Junta and his determination up till the end?

Should he forget the clutch of Junta’s strong grip on his rain-soaked uniform, the harsh shakes of his body against the loud cheering outside?

Does he want to confront the knowledge that it’s _over,_ completely over?

An adult would be able to accept it. They wouldn’t be opening their mouths and saying things they didn’t mean, only to watch the recipient’s face fall and shoulders slump, feet shuffling and lips shaking with unsaid emotion.

Like when he watched Junta back then, struggling to keep his composure, struggling to carry the weight of his own heaving breaths between sobs. Struggling, even then, face buried into his shoulder as he held on tight.

“Because of me,” Junta starts again, though the syllable hitches and he can’t say the rest like he wants.

(Neither can Kazuki, watching him like this.)

“Don’t,” Kazuki warns, his grip tightening, “don’t say that. We’ve moved on, right? Don’t let yourself get stuck in this mindset.”

Never once has he seen Junta on the field angry, never seen him give into the hard line of a scowl, but as soon as he sees the look pass over the younger one’s face, he knows.

“Shouldn’t that be,” it doesn’t sting any less, of course, but he’s not surprised when he hears, “my line?”

But Kazuki is over it, isn’t he? Junta, and the time and energy and dedication he put into baseball. Yet the pitcher is standing there, eyes filled with more tears than before, accompanied by furious cinched eyebrows, and nothing is fixed. The train pulls up, Junta stepping back further, and Kazuki still cannot piece it together, what he learned during their separation.

The only thing he can bare to say is “see you soon,” lacing it together like a promise.

_I love —_

Junta shakes his head incredulously, a hand covering his eyes. “See you, Kazu-san.”

Kazuki wonders who is more caught up in the other, after all.

 

 

 

 

 

**Haru/Rin. The race.**

 

Haru’s legs shake.

The air is suffocating — it presses against his chest, caving in his heart and mind. He does not believe in anxiousness, but Rin is on the block next to him; his calm exhales, his strong confidence.

Rin is on the block next to him, and Haru can’t get his footing right. His stance is wrong. He dives in, and the water feels just as heavy; breathing _burns,_ red lines the corner of his eyes, and the angle and arc of his arms all wrong. Rin holds the lead, and at the look Rin gives him off their turn into the last half of the 100m, Haru lets his eyes widen.

It’s wrong. It’s all wrong. Rin’s crazed look punctures a hole in Haru’s gut, and he speeds up. The tips of his fingers shake, and it’s still not enough. Rin’s arms are longer, his shoulders more defined. His head position stays perfectly straight even as his shoulders rotate in sync with his legs. Everything is flawless.

Haru never doubts his ability. Somewhere, he knows he has natural talent most do not possess. When water passes over him, malleable and gentle, he becomes what he has always wanted to be. Free of troubles, of Rin’s wet eyes burned over the back of his eyelids and the heavy feeling in his arms every time he swam after that.

Water breathes silently, with warm inhales and cool exhales, brushing up gently against the line of Haru’s skin. And yet, taking small glances at how is head lines with Rin’s thighs, so far behind, he understands that the fire on his skin is from the water.

It _hurts._

The thought almost makes him angry, at Rin taking away what has always been beside him, entangled into his being. Hatred momentarily fuels adrenaline into his muscles, and he shoots forward.

  
Rin, however, out-touches him at the wall. Excitement radiates from his core, and he grins, all malice and revenge and anger, things Haru never wanted to see. Not on Rin’s face. Not on the boy who used to stare at him in respect and awe.

Not the boy in the team he believed (believes) in, even to this day.

_I win._

_This means I’ll never swim with you again._

Stop, Haru wants to say. You won. You got what you wanted. Stop, stop, stop -

_Never._

Haru doesn’t care. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t care —

He can’t breathe. There’s even more compression on his chest now, and he can’t stop the gasp that leaves his lips. Their past now negligible, it makes him ache, water slipping from his fingertips. The calm is gone; in its wake leaves a desert filled with sand that clogs his lungs.

He really can’t breathe.


End file.
